


Hoy quizá sí

by dollalpaca



Category: Canada's Drag Race RPF, RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon Compliant, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Hanahaki Disease, Poetically Prententious Narration, The Author Regrets Nothing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26464858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollalpaca/pseuds/dollalpaca
Summary: Lemon tries to remember the faces of the men she’d kissed under the cover of darkness, of the ones she’d gone home with, even the strangers she’d briefly exchanged words with. But she doesn’t remember any chest pain in particular, or the smell of whatever flower that’s growing in her lungs now. There’s nothing. Just the knowledge one of them gave her the gift of a long, painful death if she doesn’t manage to find him.[hanahaki disease AU.]
Relationships: Lemon/Priyanka (Canada's Drag Race RPF)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 51





	1. imaginando que vuelves a pasarte por aquí

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is, it just happened. i'm apparently unable to write anything other than sad lemyanka. hope you enjoy either way! thanks emerald for beta-ing this hot mess :D this is very experimental, she/her pronouns are used for everyone, and drag race doesn't exist in this universe. they're just your average drag queens.

It happens while Lemon is puking her brains out in the bathroom of a bar in Toronto, shortly after her set finished, but she doesn’t register it until quite later on.

The queen who booked her in the first place—Scarlett, if she remembers correctly—is holding her wig while she strokes her back, mumbling encouraging words and thanking her profusely for having come all the way from New York, offering to pay her an Uber if she wants. 

But Lemon is hardly paying attention—the world is fuzzy, blurry around the edges, and she’s not sure if it’s just her inebriated brain imagining things, but she could swear she sees something bright yellow as she flushes down the toilet, with the form of a petal. It’s small, so, so small, and her gaze focuses on it for a fleeting moment before it’s gone.

She gets up with Scarlett’s help, hugs her tight, thanking her for everything, including getting shitfaced already. Scarlett snickers, hugging her back, and helps her waddle backstage to de-drag. Lemon is quite chatty, sober or not, so she babbles about anything and everything as she stumbles backstage, clinging onto Scarlett for dear life.

She collapses onto her chair, taking off her ashy blonde wig. There are girls chattering in the background, addressing her every so often, but she can’t answer with more than non-committal hums as she haphazardly takes her make-up off. Her hotel is just some blocks away, a cab wouldn’t really be necessary if she just gets someone to walk her—but she also can’t walk straight, or walk at all without stumbling, so she might have to take up Scarlett on her offer.

Lemon’s already chaotic train of thought is disrupted by the door opening again and closing with a loud thud, making her jump slightly.

“What happened now? They didn’t know your name?” Someone inquires in a teasing tone, chuckling shortly. There’s another thud, and out of the corner of her eye, Lemon sees another queen flop into her make-up station, arms crossed over her chest.

“No, worse—the bar ran out of lemons for Tequila shots! What kind of unprofessionalism is that?” She slurs ever so slightly, her voice full of childish annoyance that Lemon finds amusing, and, if she could formulate sentences better, she’d make a punny joke about there being plenty of Lemon for everyone.

But she just vaguely looks at them, the queen with their arms folded glimpsing at Lemon from the corner of her eye for a moment, then turning her full attention towards her after a second.

“Heyyy! You’re the citrus queen!” She exclaims gleefully, a wide grin spreading on her face. Lemon lets out a chuckle at her quick mood change. “Are you actually made of lemons? ‘Cause that would come really in-handy.”

A throaty laugh comes out of Lemon just as another queen says a _you’re so stupid, Priyanka_ above all the noise. The name sticks out to Lemon, for whatever reason that might be—Priyanka, huh? She’s sure she heard about her before tonight. But Lemon doesn’t have much time to ask if they’ve met before, perhaps in a gig back in New York, when Priyanka exits the room again, barely giving herself another coat of lipstick and adjusting her wig.

***

Lemon stares at the three bloody petals laying in the sink, as Jan’s knocks get progressively louder, harsher, the concern in her voice being the only thing that Lemon can distinguish between the white noise. 

She lies against the bathroom door, asking Jan in a croaked voice to please leave her alone for a moment. But Jan is Jan, so she tries to negotiate so she’ll let her in—Lemon knows she’s only looking out for her, and really, all she wants now is to be held by someone she cares about and tell her things are going to be okay.

But suddenly, nothing in her life is okay anymore, so the only thing she _really_ wants right now is to be alone and figure out everything before she panics, which is easier said than done.

So Lemon puts her foot down, wets her lips and screams at Jan to leave her alone—she’s never yelled at anyone, least of all Jan, and the regret is instant. But the knock on the door ceases, and there’s a beat of silence before she hears hesitant footsteps. She’ll deal with the guilt of making Jan sad later; right now, as the three bloody petals are staring right back at her, she feels her chest tighten, her heart beats loudly against her ears and she slowly falls to the cold ground.

The first question on her mind is _who._ Not when or how, just _who._ Who’s supposed to be her unrequited love, if she hasn’t felt the faintest tug?

Lemon tries to remember the faces of the men she’d kissed under the cover of darkness, of the ones she’d gone home with, even the strangers she’d briefly exchanged words with. But she doesn’t remember any chest pain in particular, or the smell of whatever flower that’s growing in her lungs now. There’s nothing. Just the knowledge one of them gave her the gift of a long, painful death if she doesn’t manage to find him.

She tells Jan later, when she’s able to breathe properly—well, not _really_ , if she thinks about it, but that’s not important now—and all Jan does is wrap her in a tight hug, mumbling _I’m so sorry_ a hundred times while Lemon tries to keep her tears in. Which, admittedly, is easier said than done when your best friend and roommate has already decided you’re going to die from the flower disease. 

“Who is it?” She asks softly, while they’re still tangled on the couch. The question makes Lemon feel dizzy, breathing heavily as she tries to compose herself.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles somberly, she hears Jan sigh heavily, holding onto Lemon a tad too tight. And Lemon knows she wants to ask more questions, but Jan is Jan, and as polite as she is, she won’t ask any when she clearly sees the distress it causes her.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Jan offers instead, her voice is quiet in comparison to the noise coming from the streets. And they just stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, until Lemon starts crying again—Jan says nothing, just rocks her back and forth, while Lemon’s cries echo in the otherwise silent room.

***

Lemon has a gig that same weekend despite Jan’s protests. Jan thinks she’s this fragile thing now that she knows she has the flower disease—but like it or not, Lemon still has a life to live until the flowers in her lungs are in full bloom. Until then, she still has bills to pay and student loans to loathe. And, besides, she’s one of New York’s headline entertainers; she’d managed to get where she is after clawing and fighting tooth and nail for those gigs, so you bet she’ll make the most of the time she has left.

It’s a full night, and Lemon has the time of her life as she performs Lip Gloss. The tips fly over her, the crowd hollers every time she launches into a split, and the men in the audience have their attention fixated on her, giving her sly winks when she catches their eye, while the girls just hand tip after tip, filming the whole thing. A normal day, basically.

Lemon steps backstage, accepting the bottle of water one of the queens offers her. She peeks from behind the curtains as the host makes the audience laugh before continuing with the next queen.

“Who’s the next performer?” Lemon asks between sips of water. A queen with a pink wig briefly looks at her before her attention is back to the host.

“Some girl from Canada, I think her name is—”

“ _HEY NEW YORK, MY NAME’S PRIYANKA._ _WHAT’S MY NAME?_ ” The Queen with the pink wig is interrupted by a scream in the microphone that probably makes everyone jump. Lemon takes a peek at the queen on stage; she's wearing a bodysuit with her name all over it, a black high ponytail and thigh high boots.

Lemon is sure she's seen her before, but she can't fully grasp when—until it clicks. She met her in Toronto, after puking her brains out and being helped by another queen, Scarlett. That time she'd also had a lingering feeling that they've met before, but it was probably nothing. 

Priyanka is probably the funniest, most cheerful drag queen she's ever had the pleasure to watch. Priyanka easily makes the crowd chant her name, dancing and twirling around the stage, adding her own take of comedy to her moves—she’s hypnotizing, and Lemon feels like she could watch her all night long, but her scalp hurts, her feet ache, and all she wants to do is catch a break before her next performance. 

She wanders off to the dressing room, easily chatting with the queens getting ready. They talk about trivial topics, like what a pain they’re in, with their corsets and high heels, some complain about members of the audience and others just listen, making witty comments every now and then.

Lemon takes a break from the conversation for a moment to scroll through her Instagram, answer comments and check her DMs, when she feels something tickling the back of her throat, not in the way she usually likes it—before she registers it, she’s throwing up in her make-up bag, little bloody petals staining the products she worked so hard for.

The room becomes silent, so silent Lemon swears they can hear the way her heart is pounding against her chest. She can feel everyone’s burning stares as she tries to clean up the blood stains with make-up wipes, apologizing profusely, though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for.

One of Jan’s friends—Jackie, if she recalls correctly—looks at her with pity, making Lemon’s skin crawl as she places a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t want nor need her pity—not Jackie’s, not Jan’s, and not anyone’s. She opens her mouth to talk, but Lemon cuts her off.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she mutters bitterly, evading Jackie’s gaze. “I’m _fine_. I’ve never been better,” she says ironically, but Jackie still has that sympathetic look on her face. Lemon feels like throwing up again, and not because the petals.

“Sure, honey,” Jackie says, “We’re here if you need anything, ‘kay? I know how annoying the flower disease can be.” The other queens pipe up too, piggybacking on Jackie’s statement.

“I know this one queen that actually got the removal surgery,” Brita starts, because _of course_ Brita knows someone. She’s the heart of New York. Everyone knows Brita and Brita knows everyone. “She’s actually living a pretty good life, heard she got a cat. She performs at the cabaret every so often, but her steady gig is over Therapy. I think Jackie knows her, don’t you, Jacks?” 

The topic quickly moves on from Lemon, and though she’s used to being the center of attention, she actually doesn’t mind it this time when the conversation isn’t about her. Jackie stays by her side, clearly looking over her, probably because if she doesn’t, Jan will somehow find out and flip her shit. Jan knows everyone’s business in New York, and drag queens aren’t precisely known for keeping secrets, so Lemon is dead sure this incident will get to her in some way.

Priyanka enters the changing room with a wide smile, greeting everyone with that Canadian politeness that Lemon has lost over the years. She strikes a friendly conversation with the rest as she changes for her next number, and just then Lemon remembers her next performance is in ten minutes.

“Fuck,” she says, when she realizes her make-up bag is still stained with blood, and, as squimish as she is, there’s no way she’ll reach in to get her lipstick to give her lips a touch up. “Fuck, does anyone have a nude lipstick I can borrow?”

“I got you, girl!” Priyanka pipes up almost immediately, turning to look at her. “Oh, hi! We meet again, citrus queen,” she greets with a cheerful tone, and Lemon is surprised that she recognizes her. Still, she returns the smile and accepts Priyanka’s offer, quickly taking the nude lipstick from her hands.

Surprisingly enough, it’s a match for her tone.

Lemon changes into her next costume, thanks Priyanka, and heads back to the stage. Just seconds before she has to perform, she feels yet another petal tickling at the back of her throat.

***

“What do you mean you have another gig in Toronto?” Jan asks, baffled, as Lemon packs up her stuff. Lemon briefly looks at her, deciding on which wig she’ll bring. 

“Oh, yeah, the queen that booked me the last time is doing this big pride event, but some of her artists fell through, so now she needs someone to fill their places,” she explains, deciding on spicing things up and bringing her fiery red wig instead of her usual blonde wigs. She does reach for a yellow one, though.

It surprises her that Scarlett decided to book her again—she’d heard that the Toronto drag scene is as competitive as in New York, and securing gigs is never easy when you’re a baby queen. She supposses she’s in luck that an influential figure as Scarlett has decided that she likes her; branching out to other countries is what Lemon desperately wants. She knows she has the potential to be a star, and she’s going to make it happen.

Though she’s excited, Jan is looking at her with a tinge of worry; it doesn’t take a genius to know that Jan is afraid for what might happen while Lemon is there. The flower disease hasn’t stopped, it comes back every now and then, always at the worst moments. Lemon is growing exasperated, she still doesn’t know who’s the one to blame for her suffering—the flowers come without the pain of her lungs being asphyxiated by the tails, or the intoxicating smell of her unrequited love. 

Lemon has no way of knowing who she’s supposed to beg to love her, she’s completely blank, and after three months of being in the dark about it, she’s slowly losing hope of finding him. The idea of dying hasn’t quite sunk in yet, so she tries not to think about it. Lemon knows that ignoring her problems isn’t exactly the best way to cope, but it’s not like she has any other option.

Besides, she’s not _that_ bad. She’s not. She can breathe properly, nothing hurts and the flowers are blooming at a very low pace. For all she knows, she has many years ahead if she plays her cards right.

Jan doesn’t seem to get that, as she persuades her to cancel and stay with her in New York, but Lemon just shuts her down with that stern tone she used the first time she yelled at her. She doesn’t like treating Jan like this, especially because she _knows_ she means well. She does. But Jan has the bad habit of treating her like her little sister, over-protecting her and raising an eyebrow when she has gigs outside of New York.

Lemon loves her roommate, but she’s not going to let her get in the way of enjoying whatever time she has left.

Jan seems to understand her fuck up this time, though, and is quick to apologize.

“Need help packing something?” She asks tentatively, and Lemon smiles, telling her to please fold her boy clothes while she figures out which drag outfits to bring.

***

Toronto welcomes her with open arms when she arrives, just like Scarlett when she sees her again. 

They’ve been liking each other’s posts ever since Lemon’s first gig, leaving comments here and there, replying to each other’s story on rare occasions. It’s a nice enough friendship, considering Lemon was drunk for half of the only time they spent together.

Scarlett introduces her to a handful of queens, all of them greet her with a smile and sometimes an air kiss. That’s until she sees Priyanka. She wraps her in a tight hug, asks her how life in New York is going, if she needs to borrow a nude lipstick again; Priyanka is the embodiment of hospitality and kindness, and Lemon can appreciate that in a queen. 

They make small talk while they get ready, with Lemon laughing so hard at Priyanka’s antics that she has to stop to catch her breath. Priyanka is funny on and off stage, no wonder why every queen seems to like her, often trying to involve her in a conversation or playfully nagging at her.

“Is it hard to get bookings in Toronto if you’re not well-connected?” Lemon asks with genuine curiosity. She’d heard something along those lines in her freshman year of college, when she still hadn’t gotten into dance school in New York. One of her friends was trying out the whole drag thing, but getting a gig just like that was simply impossible.

Priyanka briefly looks at her, pursing her lips before staring back at her reflection in the mirror. “I think so? Like, there are always new queens popping up and trying to make it, but if you have no one to vouch for you it’s kinda hard. But sometimes you get lucky, or you’re good when it comes to putting yourself out there,” she explains, turning to look at Lemon with a sneaky smile this time. “In my case, it just so happens that everyone likes me!”

Lemon laughs wholeheartedly, making a sarcastic comment about not believing that for a single second. Even though the whole time she’s chatting with Priyanka, a warm feeling spreads through her chest, weirdly feeling right at home despite this being her second time stepping in Toronto after literal years.

It feels nice, there should be more people like Priyanka.

The night is good to Lemon, and she gets a more than decent amount of tips and enthusiastic screams every time she pulls her best dance moves. The petals don’t bother her at all, but she feels oddly breathless most of the time, like there’s a rope tied around her ribcage restricting her mobility. Logically, she knows it’s due to the flowers, but she’d rather believe it’s because of her corset—that isn’t even _that_ tight.

But, if Lemon is great at something, it’s refusing to acknowledge the garden growing in her lungs.

She sneaks into the audience to watch the other queens’ numbers, cheering them on and tipping them from her own pocket. The one she enjoys the most is Priyanka; she hasn't been able to tear her eyes off her since she started performing, her energy, the way she moves, and how she interacts with the audience is captivating.

Priyanka is mesmerizing. Very. There’s not a single person in the room that doesn’t have their eyes glued on her, at the edge of their seat, eager for her next move. And maybe that’s how she explains the way her heart skips a beat when she catches Priyanka’s glance and she winks at her. 

Almost at the end of her number, she goes up to one of the queens sitting in the audience, wiggling her brows up and down with a shit-eating grin. The queen rolls her eyes, but she leans further, a playful smile settling on her face. Lemon cocks a brow, wondering what’s going on, why are they—

—and then Priyanka kisses the queen.

Lemon just stares, not even blinking. There’s a weird feeling in her chest, the breathlessness becoming unbearable with every second that passes. Her head is spinning, the world becomes blurrier, so she stands up from her seat and heads to the bathroom, ignoring the concerned glances Scarlett shoots her when she passes by her. 

Luckily, the bathroom is empty, so Lemon easily finds a stall to lock herself in. She kneels down, and before she knows it, there’s a mess of spit, blood and flowers coming out from her mouth.

Somehow, this feels oddly familiar. She rests her back against the wall, pulling her knees up to her chest, and memories of her first gig in Toronto flash through her mind. That’s when she remembers it—the flower disease began on that very same day, but the petal was so minuscule, just a warning of what would come later, and she was so far gone, she hadn’t paid it much mind. 

Lemon tries to connect the dots, because she’s sure the answer is right _there_. She’s just not looking at it like she should.

She tries to remember what she was doing before puking her brains out, but the memory is blurry. She remembers drinking shots with other queens, but she doesn’t remember their names, and there was someone performing on stage, and the crowd was going _crazy_. Her ears hurt, so she turned to see what the queen on stage was doing to make everyone go wild.

Lemon probably saw her for a split second before she did a split and she was out of sight, so she kept on doing shots and laughing with her new friends. 

Her memories don’t really go farther than before that, but as she sits on that bathroom floor, she remembers something else—she was in a gig in LA, already ready to go on stage and waiting for her turn, taking selfies with the rest of the queens for her Instagram stories. One of the booked queens arrived late, and she passed by them on her way to the changing room, with her face done and wig on.

“Who’s that queen?” Lemon had asked towards Gigi Goode, one of the house queens. Gigi had looked towards the corridor where the queen disappeared, and then back at Lemon.

“Pretty sure that’s Priyanka, she’s from Toronto. Apparently she’s a big deal over there,” Gigi explained, looking back at her phone.

Lemon had made a non-committal sound, going back to her phone shortly after. But she felt something weird in her chest, almost like a tug, but she hadn’t paid it any mind, thinking it was just the adrenaline of opening that night’s show.

That had been just some weeks prior to her first gig in Toronto. 

Lemon puts the pieces of the puzzle together with reluctance, a sinking feeling in her chest when she realizes it has been Priyanka this whole time.

Well, fuck.


	2. la esperanza dice quieta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE BACK TO REGULAR SCHEDULED PROGRAM, sorry it took long, i just hit writers block bc i have to be over the top pretentious when it comes to hanahaki jsjsjs. either way, hope you like this update! things get s p i c y. thanks to emerald for beta-ing, and mar for reminding me of the existence of this fic KFJDSFJ.

“ _ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?_ ”

Lemon scrunches up her face, almost dropping her phone due to the sheer volume of Jan’s scream. It’s 2 a.m. and she’s back from her gig, and of _course_ the very first thing she does is tell Jan. She’s been keeping all of her feelings in since she found out, trying to convince herself that she got it all wrong, that it must be a coincidence—but the breathlessness she gets when she’s around Priyanka and the faint sweet smell she discerns when she hugs her tell another story.

“Yeah. I found my unrequited love,” Lemon repeats, even though she knows Jan heard her well. “He’s— _she’s_ a Toronto queen, one of the headliners in the scene, apparently, and it's— Jesus, Jan, it's _so_ fucking complicated to explain.”

She rubs her face with the heel of her palm, rolling in her bed. Jan prompts her to tell her everything, that she’s hearing and there’s no chance she’ll fall asleep right now. Lemon smiles a little; Jan’s always been a night owl, awake until the very dawn doing all sorts of things.

So Lemon tells her. Her story telling is messy, far from linear and sometimes not even Lemon can comprehend what she’s saying—she blames it on the six vodka sodas she’s had and the eagerness of telling Jan all about Priyanka. How her smile lights up a whole room, the way she makes her feel right at home with her playful banter, and how the tails of the flowers in her lungs squeeze her insides when she’s near her.

She also tells her that she doesn’t feel what she’s _supposed_ to feel for her, not really. Yes, Lemon is infatuated with her, and she thinks Priyanka is the most interesting person on earth, and she gets flustered at moments when she talks to her.

But it’s not love by any means. Not _yet_ , anyway. And Lemon can’t quite put a finger on why the universe has decided to condemn her with the flower disease if she doesn’t love Priyanka to begin with.

“Wow,” Jan says, once Lemon is done speaking. “Okay, um, well, this sure is complicated.” 

“Tell _me_ about it.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which Lemon just stares at the ceiling, unsure of what to do or what to say. Though she feels utterly exhausted, she doesn’t feel the least bit sleepy. Sleep is the least of her concerns.

“So what are you gonna do?” Jan asks softly, pulling Lemon from her chaotic train of thought. She knits her brows in a frown, asking what she means. “She’s from Toronto, you’re from New York—how’s that gonna work out?”

Lemon stares blankly at the ceiling, unable to form a coherent answer. Fuck. Okay. Jan has a point. 

“Well, I’m technically Canadian too,” she starts, but that’s all she has in terms of a plan. She’s Canadian, so she has the citizenship, and her parents still live in their old house that she visits every now and then. She rubs her eyelids with the heel of her palm, groaning in frustration. 

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” Jan is quick to say, trying to sound comforting and calm, but Lemon knows her like the back of her palm, so she distinguishes the anxious tone in her voice, and she could bet she’s chewing her nails again. Jan always does that when she’s anxious. “You have a lot of time—well, not _really_ , but, y’know—and you still have two days left in Toronto. Maybe you can figure out something in the morning? And maybe call your best friend to help you out with it?” She offers, her tone growing high pitched with every word she says. Lemon scoffs, tossing and turning in her bed with a small smile. 

“Yeah, maybe.” It’s all she says before biding Jan goodnight and stuffing her phone under her pillow. Her alarm is set to go off in six hours, but Jan’s question still runs around her mind an hour later.

What is she going to do? Abandon her life in New York and move to Toronto just because she doesn’t want to die? She’s worked so hard for her status, has endured months without a single gig and making two dollars in tips once she _finally_ had one, and now that she’s a well known performer, she doesn’t want to let go of that. Not a chance.

And, besides, what if Priyanka ends up having a boyfriend already? What will she do then? Beg her to leave her boyfriend and love her, pretty please, or otherwise she’ll die? It’s not Priyanka’s fault that the universe is a bitch, and Lemon would wholeheartedly understand if she doesn’t want to throw all of her life to the trash for a stranger. Lemon knows she wouldn’t do that either.

But there’s the side of her that wonders: would it really be that hard to be as big as she is in New York here in Toronto? Priyanka herself said it _is_ quite difficult, but not impossible, clearly, and she already has Scarlett to vouch for her. Though she would feel bad for using her to get bookings.

She overthinks it so much that she ends up getting a headache, tossing and turning again to try to get some sleep.

The idea of googling flower removal surgery prices runs through her mind once or twice, but Lemon falls asleep before she can actually grab her phone.

***

Lemon is sweating in weird places by the moment she finishes her second performance of the night, but it’s not like she isn’t used to it, so she resolves to ignore it until she can go back to her hotel room and get a well-deserved shower.

So far, the night has been kind to her. There are queens performing that weren’t part of the line-up yesterday, and she has a good time getting to know them between breaks and making lighthearted banter. Priyanka isn’t between them, and Lemon doesn’t know if she’s grateful for it or disappointed.

Well, maybe a bit of both. It’s nice to not have the suffocating feeling in her chest and the need to puke her brains out even if she hasn’t drunk anything yet. It is, however, incredibly disappointing that Priyanka isn’t here; Jan had managed to find out—by methods she didn’t want to tell her—her socials. She had woken up to a string of Instagram DMs followed by a post from Priyanka’s account.

_jansportnyc: went through all of her posts and highlights, no bf in sight._

_jansportnyc: well, i can’t find any boy account, but so far it doesn’t seem like she has a bf._

_jansportnyc: but look, it seems like she likes to make out with other queens. so maybe you can get lucky too!!_

_jansportnyc: brb gonna check her twitter._

_jansportnyc: detective jan sport, out._

Of _course_ Jan had managed to find Priyanka’s socials already, without even being prompted to. If she knows Jan—and she does, like the back of her palm—this is her way of saying “ _I may be in another country right now, but there’s no way I’m leaving you alone_.” It makes her heart beat with fondness for her friend, but it also makes her feel a little scared by her abilities. And so, Lemon had gone through all of Priyanka’s posts and story highlights, to see if Jan was right; luckily so, she was. There was no boyfriend in sight, unless she liked to keep things private, in that case, if she were to hit up on Priyanka, she could excuse herself by saying she didn’t know. 

But much to her dismay, Priyanka wasn’t on the lineup for the day, so her hopes of making a move on her had suddenly vanished. But there’s always tomorrow, right? Besides, it’s not like she doesn’t enjoy getting to know the rest of the performers; Scarlett had introduced them to her at the very beginning of the night, and though she mixed up the names a couple times, she got a good amount of them down.

They’re nice enough, and she chatters away with them between breaks. There are two of them that bicker back and forth a lot, and Lemon knows shade between sisters is normal and expected, but there’s something more to it that Lemon can’t quite put a finger on. Scarlett comes and goes, entertaining all kind of conversations, taking a sip of water, adjusting her wig, and heading back to the stage. Scarlett goes back and forth between tipsy and sober, Lemon wonders how is that possible.

Her answer comes when she’s heading out of the room to get a drink, only realizing her wallet is back in her bag when her hand’s closing around the door knob. She turns around for a brief second, probably even shorter than that, and they share a brief kiss at the back of the room, thinking that no one’s looking. 

Lemon whips her head around, pushes the door and leaves the room. It was only a brief second, but it irks her for some reason. Maybe it has to do with the clear fondness she saw in their gazes, or their little smiles as their lips connected. Whatever it is, it unsettles her. 

Or maybe it's just jealousy—of what? Probably that they're not dying from the flower disease. Yeah, maybe. Could also be that one of the queens has a mean eyeshadow and Lemon wouldn't mind if she taught her her secrets. Perhaps also that. Definitely that, too. 

Just as Lemon tries to convince her slightly foggy mind that jealousy is bad and it only makes the flower disease worse—though that's an urban myth, more than anything—she bumps into someone in the cramped hallway between the stage and the dressing room.

“Sorry, sir,” she's quick to say, but the man just throws his head back and laughs, giving Lemon an amused look. Now, she probably should've kept on walking, but there's something eerily familiar about him.

Lemon squints, the darkness of the hallway, her buzzing head and the pounding music not letting her see him clearly—and then, it clicks.

“Shit, Priyanka?” She takes a step back, tilting her head and looking directly at him, hoping she hasn't mistaken someone else for Priyanka.

And then, he speaks.

“No, it's _Boy_ anka,” he says, grinning, and Lemon knows she's staring, but it's not like she can help it.

She's never particularly believed that a pretty boy is what makes a pretty drag queen—but holy _shit_ , she might just actually believe that when it comes to Priyanka. Well, _Boy_ anka (Lemon mentally rolls her eyes. What an idiot has the universe decided to tie her life with. It's not like she's complaining, though). 

Jan has yet to find a boy account, and Priyanka's seemingly main Instagram profile doesn't have a single picture out of drag—not even a highlight just full of thirst traps. Lemon had actually been wondering how she would look like without the make-up, pads, jewelry and wigs. And she's not disappointed.

“Of course it is,” she mutters under her breath, “what are you doing here? Scarlett said you weren't performing tonight,” she asks, raising her voice over the music just so Priyanka can hear her. 

He gives her a toothy grin, clearly excited, running a hand over his hair as he looks back and forth between Lemon and the end of the hallway.

“Oh, I'm not, but my friend Kiara came from Montreal for tonight, and I came to support her,” he comments, practically bouncing with excitement. Then, after a second, he grounds himself a little and looks intently at Lemon. “—and I came to support the rest of the queens too, obviously. You included, citrus queen.”

 _Fuck,_ Lemon thinks, as she purses her lips when she feels the petals tickling.

“Aw, thank you, babe.” She gives him a cheeky wink, cocking a hip as she throws her wig back. Lemon might be a lot of things, but she's not stupid, and she's definitely not going to pass out the opportunity to make her move on Priyanka.

Besides, she flirts the best when she's tipsy, so why not take advantage of it? Priyanka smiles, clearly getting her hints, and just when Lemon is about to take one step closer, he steps back, pointing at the end of the hallway.

“I'm gonna go say hi, but I'll see you ‘round!” He says, leaving Lemon intrigued by the slight quiver in his voice. But she nods either way, trying to not let her disappointment show. “Oh, and by the way,” Priyanka continues after a short-lived silence, “I really liked your I Really Like You performance. You have great legs.”

Priyanka turns around, leaving with quick steps before Lemon can say anything. She knows her face must be as red as a tomato under the layers of foundation and concealer, her heart beating like it wants to come out of her ribcage as she stares at Priyanka's back. 

He doesn't turn around once, which makes Lemon only slightly bitter, as she aimlessly walks back into the crowd without her money, thinking of the way Priyanka looked at her when he complimented her legs.

Lemon has seen that look before in the eyes of the men she brought home for the night, and her stomach flips at the slight possibility that the battle isn't entirely lost. 

///

“I’m actually going to murder you,” Scarlett says once Priyanka is done telling her about his encounter with Lemon in the hallway, of Lemon's very obvious flirting and how Priyanka had reacted: by panicking, clearly.

“You and Kiara, bitch, you and Kiara,” he replies, rubbing his eyelids with the heel of his palm. Kiara had already pulled him aside and lectured about missing his very clear opportunity, that would most likely not present as easily again. And Priyanka had just listened, trying to not roll his eyes, because of _course_ Kiara was telling him to just be honest with Lemon, when she couldn't be honest with Kyne.

 _Do as I say, not as I do_ had been the take-away of that whole conversation.

Scarlett takes a long drag of her cigarette to calm herself down, and stares daggers at him.

“I love you sis, but I agree with Kiki; I can't keep booking her if you won't make a move. It's not fair to me or to her.” Scarlett shoots her a motherly glance that Priyanka is all too familiar with, and he really wishes he could just grow a pair and plant himself in front of Lemon and tell her everything.

But they don't know each other, not _really_ , anyway, and Priyanka is sure he’ll scare her off—and get a restraining order, probably—if he says something along the lines of “ _If you don't love me, I'm going to die from the flower disease_.”

While it _is_ true, that's probably not going to land him a date. 

Scarlett pats his shoulder, a sympathetic smile blooming on her face, “And, y’know, I asked her earlier her thoughts on the local girls. She mentioned you, and got all smug, thinking I wouldn't notice,” she comments, trying to cheer him up. 

It works, because in just under a second, Priyanka has a hopeful smile back on his face, pestering Scarlett to tell him the details. And Scarlett entertains him, mostly because she's tipsy again and she enjoys seeing her friend be excited about something, even if it is the citrus drag queen from New York that somehow managed to give Priyanka the flower disease after meeting just one time.

“Y’know, I think she's decently sober now. More than the last time I booked her, anyway.” She dismisses it with a wave of her hand, rolling her eyes as Priyanka snickers. Scarlett had been annoyed with him for days on end after they found her on Instagram, booked her for a random show, and Priyanka hadn’t even said as much as five words to her throughout the entire night. “You should go talk to her, and who knows, maybe you'll get lucky.”

“No, I’m too sober for that,” he says, but Scarlett is quick to elbow him, reminding him that’s what he said last time, and she’s not going to let him pass up another opportunity like that.

“Take a shot of tequila, approach her, and do whatever it is that you do to get laid,” Scarlett suggests, ushering him inside, telling him to not come back unless it’s for saying goodbye, with Lemon perched on his arm.

He wanders back inside, the loud music unsettling him for a second, as he had gotten used to the silence of the alley next to the club.

Priyanka rehearses what he’s going to say as he makes his way to the bar, and it’s not like he’s not able to charm a stranger enough to bring them home. But this is different; it’s Lemon we’re talking about. Lemon, with her stupidly fruity perfumes to match her drag name, with the toned legs and stupid sense of humor.

He might not love her as he’s supposed to, but he can see why the universe decided to cross their fate; he can see himself falling for Lemon. Definitely. Hopefully.

Priyanka perches himself against the counter of the bar, waves the barman, and places his order. It’s all in a quick motion, but it’s not quicker than the way Lemon appeared by his side, almost in the blink of an eye.

She’s smiling, lightning up the whole room even though it’s a dark club.

“Hi again, Pri!” She chirps, excitement in her tone—and alcohol on her breath. Okay, she’s not as sober as Scarlett thought, but she doesn’t look _that_ bad.

“Hey, Lem.” He smiles back, just as the barman places his order in front of him. It’s just a simple margarita, but it should do the job. “Having fun so far?” Priyanka’s delivery comes rather awkward, and all he wants to do is slap himself. Why can’t he get it together?

Luckily, Lemon nods enthusiastically; if she notices the awkwardness she doesn’t show it, and Priyanka is thankful for it.

“Mhm! All the girls have been really nice, I think one of them adopted me or somethin’,” Lemon comments, furrowing her brows as she tilts her head. A laugh escapes Priyanka, as he takes a long sip of his margarita. “And I know you weren’t performing today, but I forgot to tell you yesterday that I really enjoyed your I Drove All Night lip sync,” she compliments him, but there’s something about it that feels somewhat forced.

Priyanka decides to ignore it, smiling back and thanking her. “Oh, yeah, I usually perform that one when my friend Kiara comes from Quebec, or I have a gig over at her local bar. It’s mostly to piss her off, she hates that song, and because it’s me, I always end it up by kissing her, just for the extra touch.” He’s not sure why he’s telling her this, but it’s out before he can shut his mouth.

Lemon shifts her weight from one foot to the other, bites her lower lip as she stares at him with a curious expression. Priyanka feels the white carnations tug, ingrain themselves just a little deeper than they were already, and panics slightly. Fuck. Okay, he had fucked it up.

“You have a habit of kissing the people in your audience?” She inquires slowly, just as he takes another sip of his drink. He shrugs.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Priyanka admits, there’s really no point in denying it.

Lemon purses her pouty, glossy lips for a second, before coming a step closer, a faux innocent smile spreading on her face.

“If I sit in the audience tomorrow while you’re performing, will you kiss me too?” She flutters her fake-lashes, biting her lower lip.

And it takes Priyanka a second too long to choke on his drink, Lemon’s intoxicating giggles being all he can hear as he nods wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is mutual hanahaki a thing? has it been done before? because i just did it. and i enjoyed it. don't worry, it'll make sense soon. hmu on tumblr @dollalpaca !


	3. hoy quizá sí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it. this is the end lads. i hope y'all enjoyed the ride, 'cause i sure did. a million thanks to emerald @fromthenorthernskies for beta-ing and being an awesome parental unit

Priyanka is, naturally, an oversharer. So it comes as a surprise to no one when the words spill from his mouth as soon as the door of Lemon’s hotel room is shut, before she can even give him another kiss.

He tells her _everything_ —how he saw her perform at Los Angeles, waiting for his turn to go on stage, and never really forgot her charming, shiny smile, the way she gave coquettish winks to the men in the audience, and how he thought that, if she caught him staring in the middle of it and gave him a combo of those two things, he probably wouldn’t survive it.

He tells her about the white carnations that started to pour out of his mouth some days after, and how he just _knew_ it had to be her. He recalls the headaches he’d given Scarlett, dragging them into helping him find Lemon’s socials and then convincing them to book her for a gig. He even mimics Scarlett’s voice when he’s remembering the way they’d berate him for being so stupid and messing up his chances.

Lemon stops him by holding up an index finger, hand covering her mouth, and the next thing he registers is Lemon showing him bloody sunflower petals scattered in her palm. She has an inquisitive look on her face, but Priyanka can’t even formulate a coherent sentence.

“I guess you didn’t like my performance _that_ much,” she tries to joke to lighten up the mood, but Priyanka is still focused on the sunflower petals. Lemon eventually sighs heavily. “This is so fuckin’ _weird_.”

Priyanka nods, and Lemon wanders off to wash her hands, telling him to get himself comfortable if he wants—the mood is all but ruined, and he just knows this will end in some kind of heartfelt conversation. He’s never been one to show emotions, often preferring to mask them by being a loud, witty person. But he supposes he can try to open up to Lemon, for the sake of making the white carnations disappear.

He fiddles with his hands, checking his phone every other second when Lemon takes a tad too long to come back. Priyanka is wondering how long it takes to wash out blood when he hears the door of the bathroom click, and a clean faced Lemon emerges; it’s then when he realizes he’s never seen her without make-up.

She— _he’s_ a pretty boy, and Priyanka thinks it’s true that thing they say, about a pretty boy making an even prettier queen.

He rummages through his suitcase for something and briefly looks up to meet his gaze.

“I think— I think it's my turn to talk. Once I find my pants, anyway,” he says with a chuckle, and Priyanka barely bites back a comment on how he wouldn't mind at _all_ if they had this conversation without pants. Instead, he just watches Lemon put a pair of pyjama pants and a t-shirt as quickly as he can, hopping onto the bed next to him, tucking his legs under his body.

His tone is far less chipper than before as he speaks, and tells Priyanka of the complete and utter stress he felt when he started coughing up petals and had no idea who on earth gave him the disease, how he cracked his skull wondering for nights on end if he would manage to find his unrequited love before it was too late, and how frustrated he felt when none of the boys he reconnected with after a one-night stand smelled like the flowers growing in his lungs.

“It turns out that sunflowers don’t have a smell at _all_ , so finding you was more complicated than I would’ve wanted,” he says with a dry laugh, but Priyanka can only imagine the unadulterated fear he felt when the disease only grew stronger by the day, and he had no way to find out who was he pining for.

Well, pining might not be the right word for it—after all, they’re both coughing up petals without _actually_ liking each other. But the universe has weird ways of pairing people, and this is just the reality they’re stuck living in. Priyanka wonders if they’ll ever be able to actually love each other hard enough for the disease to go away.

Almost as if Lemon could hear his thoughts, he speaks again, low and serious, avoiding eye contact as he fiddles with his fingers.

“I know our situation isn’t, like, ideal - you live here and I’m from New York - but we could, I don’t know, try?” He says tentatively, finally meeting his gaze. “Like, I don’t know about you, but I could’ve done a _lot_ worse.” His teasing tone combined with the earnestness makes Priyanka chuckle, as he shoves him playfully.

“Is that your way of asking me on a date?” He jokes, laughing lightheartedly, but he shuts up when Lemon looks at him in a sheepish way, fidgeting with his hands.

“Well, yeah,” he admits, “It’s my last day in Toronto, so why not?”

Priyanka musters a quiet _oh_ , but smiles nonetheless. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

A sincere smile blooms on Lemon’s face, and Priyanka thinks that is the only thing he ever wants to see bloom from now on.

***

They go on a first date that same day, because who knows when they might be able to see each other again?

Even though Lemon was born in Toronto, Priyanka makes him re-discover places that he had forgotten, as time went by and Toronto’s lively streets were replaced with New York’s busy nightlife, the more time Lemon spent there. Every so often he mentions how he remembers a certain place to be different, to be somewhere else, and Priyanka just smiles and nods, listening intently.

Their hands brush more than once, and it’s Lemon that finally reaches for his and gives it a squeeze. Priyanka tries to make a cheeky comment, but Lemon just pinches him on the back of his palm, so he keeps quiet—but the cheeky smile hardly ever leaves his face.

He learns that Lemon’s favorite color is, obviously, yellow, but pink is a close second; he has a major in dance, and for the longest time he worked for a prestigious dance company while juggling drag, but ended up quitting to dedicate himself to drag full time. He says something along the lines of knowing drag was his true calling, and Priyanka agrees through a mouthful of chips.

“I quit my job at kids TV for drag, so you can guess how committed I am.”

Lemon snorts, the drink he’s sipping on spilling from his mouth, and looks at him in disbelief. “You? Kids TV? Nuh-uh. I’ve known you for a whole day, but you’re the stupidest, dirtiest bitch ever. No way.”

Priyanka smiles, because he’s more than used to getting that kind of answer, so he just tells Lemon to google his name and he’ll see.

Lemon knits his brows in a frown, tilting his head slightly. “Come to think of it, I don’t know your name.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. Ah, shit, introductions never seem to end, do they?

“My name’s Mark,” he says softly, whole demeanor changed. He isn’t used to saying his actual name to other drag queens—it’s enough for them to know Priyanka and not Mark, who aren’t that different, not really, but first name basis feels too personal; not even Scarlett calls him by it.

Lemon smiles, and sticks his hand out to shake. “I’m Chris, nice to meet you.”

He shakes his hand with a laugh, and thinks that, maybe, by the calmness he feels spreading in his chest, there’s hope for them.

They spend the rest of the evening talking about themselves and getting to know each other, and when they arrive late to their gig, Scarlett barely gives them any slack, just hurries them to get ready. Priyanka knows that Lemon can’t read Bobo as well as he can, so it doesn’t really surprise him when he can’t distinguish the maternal, loving tone in their voice and is instead distracted by the faux annoyance. He just assures him that Scarlett doesn’t, in fact, hate him and the night goes on.

***

The goodbye doesn’t come with tears, but muffled promises of seeing each other again really soon as they share a long hug, neither wanting to let go, and they consider it a victory when neither one of them throws up any petals. The vines tug, naturally, but the pain is nowhere as unbearable as times before.

***

“My roommate Jan wants to come with me next time I visit you,” Lemon says in one of their calls. It’s barely been three weeks since they found each other, and there isn’t a day where they don’t text or call. It eases the grip of the vines and their longing for each other—not that either of them will admit it, though. Priyanka has come to know Lemon is just as much of a little shit as him, and it’s always a travesty to know when he _means_ something or just says it to spite him, which happens more often than not.

Either way. He purses his lips, thinking. “Is this the roommate that didn’t want you to come to Toronto because she thought you’d die?”

“The one and only.” Lemon snickers on the other side of the line, and Priyanka shrugs before realizing he can’t see him.

“She can come if she wants to, but if she gets in the way of taking you out on a date, then I’ll have to kick her ass,” he says, half-jokingly, half-serious, and he smiles when he hears Lemon laugh again.

“I’m gonna tell her just that.” There’s a beat of silence for a second, and he could swear he hears Lemon sigh under his breath. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

Priyanka would make a joke about Lemon being a softie, but he rarely gets to see this side of him, so he stays quiet and replies instead:

“I’ve missed you, lemon pie.”

Unlike other times, Lemon doesn’t groan and complain about the stupid nickname.

***

Scarlett tells him one day what he’s known for a long while: the universe has weird ways of pairing up people, but it seems like, maybe, the universe was onto something when it paired him with Lemon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy,” they say quietly, while they’re hanging out at Scarlett’s place, tipsy on wine. Priyanka doesn’t look at Scarlett right away, but when he does, he can safely say he’s never seen Scarlett _this_ relieved. “I’m glad Lemon reciprocated your feelings.”

Ah, there it is.

Priyanka reaches for them, holds their hand in silence and sighs. “Who knows if the flower removal surgery actually messes up with your emotions? I’m no doctor, but I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he says, trying to comfort his friend, but Scarlett just sighs heavily.

“I don’t know, Pri; but I’m glad you won’t have to discover it yourself.” Scarlett squeezes Priyanka’s hand once again and lets it go after a moment, and Priyanka thanks them silently for not giving up on him, even if that brought painful memories.

“If you two get married,” Scarlett continues after a moment, “I’m calling dibs on best-man, or best-woman, or whatever.”

Priyanka’s laugh echoes in the room and pinky promises that they’ll be his best-whatever, trying to not let it show on his face how the idea of marrying Lemon makes his insides churn.

***

The months go by in a haze, and he’s not sure when it started to fade out, but around a year after their first date, Lemon welcomes Priyanka with a tight hug as soon as they find each other in the airport. Priyanka lets go of his suitcase to reciprocate the hug, and when he breathes in against the crook of Lemon’s neck, his heart jumps out of surprise when he doesn’t feel the faintest smell of white carnations.

 _Finally,_ he thinks, letting Lemon’s hand guide him through the familiar places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can catch me over in tumblr @dollalpaca!

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is @dollalpaca!


End file.
